Fallen Into Shadow
by ncfan
Summary: She has fallen into shadow and darkness. She was brave and she was beautiful, but it was not enough to save her.


**Fallen Into Shadow**

I started to suspect when I noticed how much softer Dernhelm's voice was than those of the other Rohirrim. Low and soft for all the steel in quiet tones.

As Nazgûl poison courses through my veins, I marvel that I never noticed before.

When I first laid eyes on Lady Éowyn, I was sure that she was the most beautiful of women I had ever seen. More so even than Lady Arwen, for she was not half as remote. She was a maiden queen, a tall, fair woman clad all in white, shining in the darkness of Meduseld under Saruman's control.

But she was sad, terribly sad. Some shadow clung to her slim shoulders, trapping her in. The walls were too stifling for her. She was not a flower in my eyes as all others believed she was. She was a bird, caught in a gilded cage, pining for the free air and going mad for lack of it.

And she was fierce, too. A daughter of kings was she, with all the grace of a child of the elder days. But she longed for the field of battle, longed for the throbbing rush of blood found there. She was the equal of any man in combat, but had never known that life. She was a lady, and ladies had no place on the battlefield, regardless of their valiance.

And I may have been alone in detecting the desperation and despair that led to this evil day.

There was a strange sort of madness in Lady Éowyn's pale gray eyes. Well, not madness so much as wildness. She had long suffered in darkness, watching her uncle deteriorate into senility and succumb to Death's cold embrace before her very eyes (and if she had known that it was due to Saruman's will, she would have suffered all the more in impotent rage that she could not aid Théoden King), and she felt the fresh pain of a new affliction—love for Aragorn, love he could never hope to return, how ever dearly he may have wished it.

I did not think it enough for her to ride out seeking death.

That day, when Théoden King refused to allow me to ride, she took pity on me. She who knew what it was to be trapped and caged. She who knew what it was to want so badly to aid and defend her loved ones in battle but was unable to do so.

She knew as well as I that terrible pain, that feeling of helplessness, of feeling as though she was standing before a great wave but was unable to flee.

But I did not know her. Lady Éowyn bade that she be called Dernhelm, and I did not see her for who she was. She was tall as any man, taller than some, but she was slight and slender and her hands beneath the layers of thick leather gloves seemed too small for even a boy who had not yet reached manhood.

Dernhelm was quiet, so quiet, but I could feel his tension, his anticipation, and he could feel mine. I told him of my small cousin, locked in besieged Minas Tirith, and he promised me that whatever happened I would see Pippin again before the end.

When Théoden fell Dernhelm rushed to his side, I was not surprised for out of what little Dernhelm had spoken to me I knew that he loved the King of Rohan dearly and would not allow him to come to death at the hands of the Witch-King, but I despaired of his survival.

The Witch-King spoke in a voice that reminded me of a deep well, a well in which the bottom could not be seen. He spoke terribly, telling Dernhelm that no man could kill him.

But then a laugh came, and I started and stared. For it was Dernhelm laughing, and that laugh was not a man's deep laugh, but high, clear and ringing, a chime like church bells.

And it was not Dernhelm at all. My friend lifted his helmet to reveal long, fair hair.

"But no living man am I! You look upon a woman! Éowyn am I, Éomund's daughter. You stand between me and my lord and kin. Begone, if you be not deathless! For living or dark undead, I will smite you, if you touch him."

Lady Éowyn…It was her. I could not see it before, but I knew I must have been blind not to see it.

She was still beautiful. Few would have agreed with me, but she was. Her hair was coming out of a long braid that she had hidden beneath her helmet, long strands fluttering beside her face. Her pale skin was stained with grime and smoke, but her eyes shined like beacons in the darkness surrounding the Witch-King. She was strong, straight and tall, and she would not yield.

I saw fear in her eyes as she fought, but fear she overcame and all the more courageous she was for it.

She was like a lone angel against all the power darkness could muster, and angels always prevailed. She slew the steed, but fell against the King himself, arm broken, gasping.

And then I knew. I knew that I could not let her die there. She was kind, brave, beautiful. She was the only one who had believed in me. She was the only one who truly knew and appreciated my need to defend my kin in that dark hour, and no one else understood her but me.

I moved forward, and together she and I did the impossible. Together, we slew the Witch-King of Angmar.

But now, it seems to have been all for naught. My right arm is dead and numb; I can neither move it nor feel any life in it. My eyesight is fading; all is going dark.

And as for Éowyn, she lies on her back, her pale gold hair strewn about her like fallen leaves of autumn. Her eyes are glazed and open, and when I lean over her and beg for her to wake up, she does not see me. She has fallen into shadow.

She was strong, she was valiant, but that was not enough to save her. If only I had seen sooner, if only I could have stopped the fall of the closest thing to an angel I have ever seen.

The battle still rages. The will of the Rohirrim has run to madness, as was Éomer's terrible grief and fury upon seeing his sister dead.

And as the world breaks and falls to ruin and darkness, I weep.

I weep for the fall of night over day.

I weep for the fall of the white Lady of Rohan.

I weep for Éowyn, and her crushed dreams.

* * *

I own nothing. The only bit of dialogue in quotations is taken from page 114 of _Return of the King._


End file.
